The guy reacted explosively, faster than King thought possible, and swung a knee hard and fast. It caught King on the forehead. He felt the sharp crack against his skull and his neck whipped back and he spun away, shocked by the impact. Not concussed, but close. He slammed into the rocky wall and blinked hard. Seeing stars.
The man sensed he was shaken and moved in for the kill. He came charging in and lashed out with a strong uppercut, putting everything into it, searching for King’s chin. King sidestepped just in time and the punch whistled through the air near his head. Now they were too close to each other to rely on technique.
The fight quickly became a rabid brawl.
King swung with everything he had, loading up on all his punches, hunting for the knockout blow just as hard as the other man was. Pure, unbridled energy crackled in the air. The energy of two men trained in combat, knowing that it only took one shot to land to ensure they would live, knowing that one of them had to die. King felt something primal in him break through, lending him extra speed and strength. He simply had to land the blow.
It came in a flurry. He ripped a body shot into the man’s stomach, below the vest, twisting his torso as he swung and driving his fist into the soft spot with everything he had. A powerful right hook grazed off the top of his head but did not faze him. He felt the guy begin to double over, all the breath knocked out of him, accompanied by a grunt of exertion. A single moment of much-needed recovery. Which, as always, was all King required. With his other arm he cracked the guy in the jaw. It gave off a grotesque sound, which he knew translated to a concussion. The man’s brain rattled inside his skull, dazing him, rendering him useless.
King surged forward, gritting his teeth in anger, and wrapped his big hands around the back of the guy’s neck. He pulled him down, using all the fire in his muscles, all the chaotic adrenaline of a life-or-death brawl. The guy’s head dropped without resistance, still affected by the flash knockout seconds earlier. King guided his face on the correct trajectory and met it with a vicious knee straight to the nose. The sound of breaking bone rang off the mossy walls and the man’s legs gave out and he collapsed to the floor of the cave, out cold.
As silence descended once again, King began to feel the effects of the fight. During such a brawl, one became almost superhuman, able to withstand any shot that didn’t lead to unconsciousness. He’d been cracked across the chin and the neck several times. He knew they were blows from a trained fighter because they hurt like all hell. His head pounded, his eyes ached. He felt the warm sensation of blood on his lips and knew he’d been cut bad by a grazing punch. It might not have taken much more to finish him off.
If he hadn’t landed the perfect combination, he had no doubts that the man lying unconscious in front of him would have out-struck him. Then beat him to death. He’d got a glimpse of the guy’s eyes during the fight. They were much like his.
Cold. Emotionless.
He’d killed before.
King knew that much.
He also knew that concussions were nothing like the movies. The guy would be awake in seconds. Perhaps not fully aware, but awake nonetheless. If he stayed out for hours, like in films, it would mean permanent brain damage.
Sure enough, his limbs began to twitch and he came to with a groan. King made eye contact and knew he was helpless. Spaced out. Defenceless. King squatted, wrapped a hand around the top of the guy’s balaclava and ripped it off. He wanted to get a look at the face of the man who had almost got the better of him.
At first, he didn’t realise what he saw. Close-cropped hair, blue eyes, a steely expression, a scar on the left cheek, chapped lips. He stared at the features, and knew that he recognised them, but for some reason he failed to process the man in front of him. A wave of sheer disbelief crashed over him.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he whispered, finally accepting what he was seeing. ‘Cole?’
He knew this man.
Which changed the entire dynamic of the situation.
Somehow, some way, his past had followed him across the planet, to a small country town in the middle of isolated Australian woodland. An old friend from years ago had just tried to murder him violently. He had spent a full year with Cole Watkins in the Delta Force before being offered a more secretive, more specialised position.
This man had been his friend.
A wave of crippling nausea almost buckled him. He came to the realisation that he hadn’t just stumbled upon a random conspiracy in the town of Jameson. This entire ordeal had something to do with him. He was no closer to the truth, but now he knew that whoever was behind this had intended his involvement from the beginning. None of this was random.
He was trapped in some kind of sick game, and it didn’t matter whether he left Jameson behind, because this would follow him until he discovered how he was connected. Or died in the process.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ King said. ‘What is this?’
Cole stared at him with blank, cloudy eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was the effects of the concussion, or if the man was drugged, or if he simply did not care to answer the question. What came next certainly answered that.
Cole reached back with a shaky hand and ripped a combat knife out of his belt. He swung it low, aiming the tip at King’s stomach. King reacted fast, outstretching both hands, searching for Cole’s forearm, finding it, reversing the swing of the blade, slamming it home into his old friend’s throat.
The man died spluttering in a pool of his own blood, and in that moment King knew his best chance at getting answers had died with him.
CHAPTER 22
The slow trek back to the main road passed in a haze.
King left Cole’s body in the cave, too deep in thought to bother attempting to hide it. He continued up through the verdure. Stepped over the two men who had ambushed him on the way down. They remained as dead as ever. He left them there too. At that moment, nothing mattered but the revelation that he was being hunted by people he knew. He had no idea why, or how many of them there were. It had skewed his perspective on the last few days, to the point where he questioned every encounter he’d made since stepping foot in Jameson.
He approached Billy’s sedan in a daze, uncaring as to whether it was still drivable. He opened the door and got in. Started the engine. Reversed out into the middle of the road, thinking how lucky he was not to be stranded miles from any town without a working vehicle. It seemed the crash had missed most of the important mechanics, but he wasn’t sure the car would last much longer. The smoke creeping out of one side of the bonnet threatened to shut the engine down at any moment. King knew he had to get to Queensbridge, to the Discount Inn, but his mind was far from concentrated on the task at hand.
He covered the last few miles to Queensbridge in record time, keeping his foot all the way to the floor. The wind battered his face as he drove, but that’s what he wanted. Anything to mask the anger and confusion. It didn’t take long to see the familiar buildings on either side of him, signifying that he was approaching the town centre. He’d passed through Queensbridge two mornings before. It felt like an eternity ago. So much had happened in such a short space of time. And this fresh revelation had shaken him to his core.
He rolled the battered sedan into the parking lot of the Discount Inn and got out. The place lived up to its name. It was a two-storey building with paint flaking off the exterior walls and cheap plastic chairs littering the tiny spaces outside each room. Even from outside King heard a crying baby in a downstairs room and a couple arguing at the top of their lungs directly above. The whole place smelt of stale cigarette smoke. He spotted reception, which was all he needed.